N is for Nourish
Nourish/'nər-ish/ verb - to sustain with food or nutriment; supply with what is necessary for life, health, and growth; to cherish, foster, keep alive, etc.
"Oi! Kain! Wait up!"
Fuery paused and looked around. A former Academy classmate, one Sergeant Walter O'Reilly, fell into step beside him, and Fuery beamed at him over the enormous stack of files in his arms.
"Walter, hey!" he chirped. "It's good to see you; how've you been?"
"Can't complain," O'Reilly replied with a little shrug. "You?"
"Good!" Fuery said, carefully shifting the files he held. "I mean, you know, busy. But in a good way!" He narrowly avoided a collision with a gaggle of secretaries as they turned the corner, and his tower of files teetered precariously.
"Need a hand?" his friend asked wryly, holding out his arms. Fuery smiled, grateful, and allowed him to take half the stack.
"Thanks, Walt, you're a lifesaver," he said earnestly. "We're back this way," he added, gesturing with his head. Fuery led the way to Colonel Mustang's office, chatting lightly with O'Reilly all the while. As they approached, they could hear a female voice delivering a sharp dressing down.
"I will not tell you again, Officer," she was saying. "Return the correct, completed forms to me by oh eight hundred hours tomorrow, or I shall be obliged to report your incompetence and insubordination to your commanding officer. Do I make myself clear?"
"Yes, ma'am!" a frightened male voice replied. The door flew open, and the harried warrant officer all but shoved them out of his way.
"Better watch it, kid," he muttered to Fuery as he passed them. "The Gorgon is in a mood."
"Uh-oh," Fuery murmured. But to O'Reilly's surprise, he calmly walked into the room anyway. "This way, Walter," he called over his shoulder. His friend trailed after him, bewildered. "I'm back with those files you needed, ma'am!" Fuery said.
The last was cheerfully directed at a steely-eyed blonde woman, whose displeasure was clear in her pursed lips and furrowed brow.
The infamous Lieutenant Hawkeye, Walter thought, swallowing hard. He'd heard plenty of rumors about the woman, but this was the first time he'd actually seen her in person.
"Thank you, Sergeant Major," she was saying. "Please leave them on my desk."
"Sure thing, ma'am," Fuery replied, carefully balancing the files on the already overflowing desk. With a smile, he took the other half from O'Reilly's arms and added them to the precarious pile. "Oh, and, er, this is Sergeant Walter O'Reilly, ma'am, a friend of mine from academy. Walt, this is First Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye."
"Thank you for your assistance, Sergeant O'Reilly," Lieutenant Hawkeye said, returning O'Reilly's crisp salute.
"Oh, sure, it was no trouble at all, sir –I mean, ma'am!" O'Reilly babbled, nerves getting the better of him. The lieutenant's lips quirked slightly in what might have been a smile, which O'Reilly didn't dare return.
"Sergeant Fuery, I don't suppose you've had a chance to get to the DV-811's yet?" Hawkeye asked, already focused on something else on her desk.
"Ah, no, I haven't, ma'am," Fuery replied, anxious. "When did you need them by?" Walter braced himself for the tongue-lashing that was sure to follow.
But Lieutenant Hawkeye only sighed.
"Tomorrow afternoon, at the latest," she replied. "I know there're more than usual this month. Have Havoc take half if you don't think you can get to them all; his workload isn't quite as time-sensitive."
"Yes, ma'am!"
"Oh, and Sergeant?" and here she fixed him with a severe look.
Here it comes, Walter thought, tensing.
"Ma'am?" Fuery squeaked.
"Take a break."
"When did you last take a break, Lieutenant?" Fuery retorted cheekily.
Walter nearly fell over. Sweet, timid little Kain was back-talking the Barracuda? Had he gone mad?!
But Lieutenant Hawkeye merely grimaced as she glanced over at the clock.
"I haven't," she admitted.
"Then I'll go as soon as you're back, ma'am," Fuery said cheerfully. Hawkeye raised an eyebrow, but before she could speak, Fuery quickly added: "Per military regulations, ma'am, Employee Handbook page 86, section 7, subsection 53, paragraph 09: all non-exempt military personnel must take their state-mandated break of no fewer than thirty minutes after every six hours on the clock. And you've been here at least three hours longer than I have, ma'am, so you really ought to go first. According to regulations."
"Can't argue with the regulations," Hawkeye said dryly. "Although I do believe you made up those page and section numbers, Sergeant Major," she added.
Was…was she teasing him? Walter wondered, eyes widening. Were they actually bantering?
"It's very possible I was mistaken as to the precise subsection number, ma'am. Shall I pull the relevant pages for your review?" Fuery suggested, all innocence. "Or I could just ask Falman – you know he's got all the handbooks memorized."
"That won't be necessary, thank you," Hawkeye said as she stood. "Hayate, come!" she called, snapping her fingers. A black and white puppy materialized at her feet.
"Want me to take him out, ma'am?" Fuery asked, frowning a little. "You should go down and get something to eat, if you haven't taken a break yet today."
"Thank you for offering, but I could use the fresh air. Want anything from Rosie's?" she asked, referring to a beloved local deli.
Fuery hesitated. Clearly he did.
"Er, no, thanks, ma'am," he demurred, rubbing the back of his neck. "I haven't got any cash on me."
Impassive, Hawkeye turned toward the door.
"All right. I'll be back in half an hour." As she strode off, the puppy at her heels, Walter watched her go with a mixture of fear and awe.
"Geez, Kain," he said in a low voice. "I can't believe you took that tone with the Iron Maiden. And got away with it, too!"
Fuery frowned.
"Don't call her that," he admonished. "Lieutenant Hawkeye's really nice, once you get to know her."
O'Reilly shot him an incredulous look.
"Yeah? How'd you get to be so friendly with her, anyway? I remember how nervous you were when you first got the transfer to Mustang's team – you thought she was gonna pulverize you for sure!"
Fuery pursed his lips, and glanced at the stack of papers on his desk.
"Okay, look - if you help me with some of these DV-811s, then I'll tell you the story," he said with a sly little grin.
O'Reilly groaned.
"Me and my curiosity…okay, okay, you got yourself a deal!" He dropped into a spare chair and reached for the form on the top of the pile. "Let's hear it, then -and don't leave anything out!"
3 months earlier
It started, as these things often do, with an innocent observation.
"Have you lost a bit of weight recently, Sergeant?" Lieutenant Hawkeye asked with a faint frown as she accepted a stack of completed paperwork from the younger man. Fuery chuckled nervously.
"Ahaha, yeah, I guess I have," he confirmed. Rather than nod and dismiss him, as he'd expected her to do, Hawkeye leaned back in her chair and waited for him to elaborate. "I, uh, I've missed a few meals, here and there, I guess," he found himself confessing. Hawkeye's frown deepened.
"Oh? And why is that?"
"Oh, just, you know, with the hours we've been working this past month - um, not that I'm complaining!" he hastened to add. "It's just, er, most of the cafes and things are closed by the time I get off work, and the mess hall too, so, if I forget to take a lunch break every now and again..." he trailed off, embarrassed by the intensity of her stare. "It's, er, it's not a big deal, really."
"There are a few shops that stay open quite late," she said, with the air of someone who knew from experience.
"Er, yes, ma'am. Just not the ones who sell pre-packaged meals. I'm not much of a cook, so it's sometimes just easier to just skip dinner altogether rather than try to figure out what I can make besides pasta. Especially when it's so late...I don't want to keep anyone waiting while I try to decide what to buy," he admitted sheepishly.
Hawkeye's politely concerned expression had gradually melted into one of understanding over the course of his little speech.
"Would you like me to give you a few pointers?" she offered.
"I beg your pardon?" he squeaked, taken aback.
"Cooking," she supplied. "I know of several fairly simple meals that can be put together quickly. I could teach you some basic recipes, if you'd like."
Shocked, Fuery could do little more than stammer out a confused response along the lines of 'thanks-very-much-but-I-wouldn't-want-to-trouble-you.'
Unbeknownst to either of them, Colonel Mustang had returned from his break just in time to overhear Hawkeye's offer and Fuery's clumsy response.
"You really should take her up on it, Fuery," he said nonchalantly, sidling up behind them and peering over Hawkeye's shoulder with the pretense of checking her progress. "I've heard from a reliable source that our Lieutenant is quite an accomplished cook," he added, winking at a wide-eyed Fuery from behind Hawkeye's back.
"Who's a good cook? And is she single?" Havoc joked, choosing that moment to walk in with Breda and Falman at his heels. Hawkeye turned in her seat to glare daggers at Mustang, who just laughed.
"Idiot, he was talking about the Lieutenant!" Fuery hissed, jamming an elbow into Havoc's side.
"Oh," Havoc replied, rubbing his injured ribs absently. "I didn't know you could cook, Lieutenant."
Hawkeye made a noncommittal noise and returned her attention to the papers on her desk, apparently considering the topic closed.
"Huh. I haven't had an honest-to-goodness home-cooked meal in ages," Breda mused, eyeing Hawkeye speculatively.
Fuery wondered at his daring, but Hawkeye just mumbled 'bachelors' under her breath. Meanwhile, Mustang's amused grin had turned mischievous.
"Say, Lieutenant," he said. "I've just had a fantastic idea."
"No," she said firmly, without looking up.
Uncomprehending, Havoc and Falman glanced between their superiors.
"What—" Falman started to ask. Breda, who had been staring at Hawkeye's face, grabbed hold of Falman's arm.
"Shh," he whispered. "Just wait a minute."
Meanwhile, Mustang was pouting slightly.
"But you didn't even let me say what it was," he whined.
"I didn't need to," Hawkeye retorted, raising her eyes.
Fuery had the sinking feeling that he knew what Mustang was about to suggest, and he cringed, mortified and slightly afraid.
Hawkeye and Mustang were locked in a staring contest, while the others looked on in varying states of confusion. Mustang spoke first.
"Your teammates need you, Lieutenant! As their commanding officer—their leader! I've done all I can to cultivate their talents as distinguished members of the Amestian State Military. So, as my right-hand woman, it's only natural that they should turn to you to…to nourish their more, er, fundamental necessities. Lieutenant, are you really willing to fail in your duty to your subordinates? Your brothers-in-arms? Your fellow countrymen?"
"Please stop talking, sir. You're beginning to sound like a raving lunatic," Hawkeye replied, sounding bored.
"Only beginning to –?" Havoc mumbled.
"SHHH!" Breda admonished him. Falman just frowned more deeply, and Fuery hid his face in his hands.
"I'll reimburse you for any out-of-pocket costs. Put in an expedited expense report and everything," Mustang said quickly. Hawkeye pursed her lips. "I'll…I'll approve that request I denied last week!" he tried next. "The one for the ridiculously expensive new rifle sight you wanted, with the para-whatever-thingy!"
Hawkeye tilted her head, considering.
"I don't have the necessary space, sir. Nor an adequate number of chairs, for that matter."
"You can have it at mine, then," he countered.
"And what about the clean-up?" she asked, lightly tapping her pen on the desk. Mustang frowned.
"Couldn't they just do it?"
"Why should my 'fellow countrymen' suffer for the sake of one of your insane ideas, O brilliant leader?" she returned, raising an eyebrow.
"Fine, fine!" Mustang caved, holding up his hands in surrender. "I'll take care of all the dishes, then!"
"And I'll still get the telescopic rifle sight?" Hawkeye pressed.
"Include dessert and it's yours," he promised. Hawkeye narrowed her eyes slightly, considering, and finally nodded.
"You have yourself a deal, sir," she said sweetly, sticking out her hand. Mustang did likewise, and they shook on it.
"You drive a hard bargain, Lieutenant," Mustang chuckled.
"What just happened?" Havoc asked in a stage whisper. Beside him, Breda grinned brightly, bursting with barely-concealed excitement.
"The Lieutenant has just agreed to hold a little cooking lesson for the hopeless bachelor males of her team," Mustang explained, beaming around at them like a benevolent uncle.
"My apartment isn't quite large enough for entertaining, I'm afraid," Hawkeye said apologetically. "But anyone who's interested can meet me at Colonel Mustang's place, Saturday evening at eighteen hundred hours."
"Saturday?" Mustang repeated in dismay. "But that's date night!"
"Oh?" Hawkeye said innocently. "Well, we only want to borrow your kitchen, sir. No one ever said your presence there was mandatory." Mustang slumped dramatically as their teammates attempted to stifle their laughter.
Ignoring him entirely, Hawkeye went on: "I'll need a head count by the end of the week so I can shop for supplies."
"Count me in!" Breda said at once, eyes shining.
"Me, too," Havoc grinned. Beside him, Falman was slowly nodding.
"I'd welcome the opportunity to expand my culinary repertoire," he said, looking intrigued by the prospect.
"I'm glad of the chance to share my own limited expertise. And you, Sergeant?" she inquired, turning to Fuery.
"Y-yes ma'am!" he squeaked. "I-I mean, yes, I'd like to come too. If I may," he stammered. "Um, can I help with anything?"
"I appreciate the offer," she said, with a hint of a smile. "If you don't mind, I could use a hand with the shopping on Saturday afternoon," she added lightly, fixing keen eyes on his flushed face.
"Sure. I mean, yes, ma'am. I'd be happy to," he agreed.
"All right, then. Let's meet up in the market place at 5th and Main. Say, sixteen hundred hours?" she suggested. "Would that be convenient?"
"Yes, ma'am," Fuery said, trying to ignore the raised eyebrows and confused shrugs being exchanged by the rest of his teammates. However inadvertently, he'd gotten her into this mess, so he supposed the least he could do was schlep a few bags for her.
When Saturday rolled around, Fuery stationed himself at the appointed corner fifteen minutes early - Lieutenant Hawkeye was not the kind of woman you kept waiting. Shifting awkwardly from foot to foot, he wiped his damp palms on his pant legs as covertly as possible and tried not to look as nervous as he felt.
Although he knew she sometimes joined the team when they went out for drinks or threw together impromptu poker games, Fuery hadn't been a part of the team long enough to actually witness her letting her hair down (literally or figuratively speaking). In fact, he'd thought that Havoc was pulling his leg when he'd first told him that Hawkeye was an exceptional pool player. He still couldn't quite picture her outside of a work environment. And the prospect of being alone with her until the others arrived really wasn't helping with his nerves.
So when Lieutenant Hawkeye spoke from behind him, Fuery jumped about four feet in the air (though he did manage to bite back the startled squeak).
"Good afternoon, Sergeant Fuery," she said pleasantly. As he whirled around to face her, one hand clutched to his racing heart, she added: "I hope you haven't been waiting long?"
"N-no, not at all, I only just arrived," he managed, flushing. "Good afternoon, Lieutenant Hawkeye."
He was certain that he would never have recognized her if she hadn't spoken first. She was dressed in a pale blue sweater set and grey slacks, both of which were considerably more flattering to her figure than the standard issue uniform. And really, how stupid to have considered the blue wool uniform as much a part of her as the color of her eyes or hair, he thought.
Speaking of which, she actually had let her hair down – it was soft and loose and longer than he'd have guessed. And oh God, he was staring, wasn't he? Had she noticed him staring?!
"Shall we begin with the produce, then?" Hawkeye suggested, tearing Fuery out of his confused tangle of thoughts. He realized belatedly that she was gesturing towards the market stalls.
"W-what? Oh, er, yes, produce. Fine by me," he quickly agreed, determined to pull himself together.
As he'd suspected, Lieutenant Hawkeye wasn't the type to fill the silence with meaningless chatter. However, she had apparently been dead serious about her offer to teach him some basic cooking skills.
As they wove their way through the various shops and stalls, she'd pause every so often to give little tidbits of advice like: "Try to choose the ones that are slightly firm and uniform in color, without any dark spots," or "the larger ones tend to be bitter; I prefer them when they're about this size." With a furrowed brow, Fuery desperately tried to commit each and every little thing she said to memory. He was concentrating so hard that he nearly leaped out of his skin when she placed a hand on his arm.
"You needn't look so serious," she said gently. "I promise I'm not going to quiz you on any of this later." Fuery managed a weak laugh.
"O-of course not! It's, um, it's just a lot to take in," he replied, blushing.
"It can be a bit overwhelming, can't it?" she said, understandingly. "If you have any questions, don't be afraid to ask. Most of the vendors are only too happy to talk about their goods. And to offer their brutally honest opinions of each other's," she added, with a little quirk of her lips.
"O-okay. I mean, yes, ma'am."
Hawkeye held his gaze for a beat longer.
"All right," she finally said. "We've just one more stop to make. This way."
When they reached Colonel Mustang's block, Lieutenant Hawkeye led the way into the narrow alleyway that ran behind the neat row of townhouses. She opened the correct gate with an easy confidence that spoke of familiarity, and Fuery wondered how often she'd had occasion to use the rear entrance of their superior's private residence. And then immediately felt guilty for even thinking such a thing – he knew better than to listen to rumors!
The gate opened into a minuscule enclosed garden, Fuery juggled his share of the grocery bags and watched in astonishment as Hawkeye bent down to pluck a loose brick from the walkway that led to the back door. For one wild moment, he thought she was going to heave it through a window. But then she glanced over her shoulder with a little smirk.
"He usually hides the spare either here or in the green flower pot on the stoop," she confided.
Fuery blinked and glanced in the indicated direction. Sure enough, there was an anemic geranium sticking out of a glazed ceramic pot to the left of the door.
"You're not likely to need it," she went on, inserting the key into the lock. "But you ought to know how to get in, just in case of emergencies. The others all do."
"I'd have thought he'd use alchemy to hide his spare key," Fuery ventured timidly as he followed her into the house.
"He used to," she said, eyes alight with mischief. "Until the time he went out drinking with Lieutenant Colonel Hughes, had his keys confiscated by a concerned bartender, and couldn't remember where or how he'd hidden his spare when they finally found their way home. He ended up falling asleep curled on the door step. Very crabby the next morning, too."
Fuery let out a startled bark of laughter, and was rewarded with an impish grin in return. He was beginning to realize that the lieutenant had a pretty snarky sense of humor hidden under all that stoic professionalism.
While Fuery unpacked the heavily laden bags, Hawkeye puttered about the surprisingly spacious kitchen, searching for various utensils and pots in the cupboards and drawers, which she then arranged to her satisfaction along the counter tops. Once he'd laid out the final item, Fuery glanced over at Hawkeye, who was now opening a bottle of white wine. She poured out two glasses and placed one in front of him before taking a small sip from her own. Then, with businesslike efficiency, she twisted her hair up into its usual clip, washed and dried her hands, and donned a simple white apron over her sweater and slacks.
"So, um, what are we going to make tonight, anyway?" Fuery asked, eyeing the neat piles of vegetables and meat as he took a cautious sip of his own wine.
"Well, the others should arrive in about half an hour," Hawkeye replied. "Once they do, we'll be putting together pecan-crusted chicken breast with bourbon sauce, mashed potatoes, steamed broccoli and a green salad. In the meantime, I thought you and I could get dessert started. It should be done baking by the time everyone else arrives."
Correctly assuming that he learned best by doing, Hawkeye handed him a recipe card for a simple chocolate cake and set him measuring ingredients. Whenever he hesitated or floundered, she was right there to offer encouragement or a gentle correction. Once the cake was in the oven, (and they'd refilled their wine glasses) they prepped ingredients for dinner, laying them out so that the others would be able to help rather than just reap the benefits of their hard work.
Fuery had to admit, it was downright strange, seeing Hawkeye all... domestic. For one thing, he was now privy to the fact that she hummed while chopping vegetables. He'd even caught a few breathy snatches of song, once or twice. When she'd realized that he'd noticed, she'd ducked her head self-deprecatingly and admitted that it was a habit retained from her childhood. Cooking and baking relaxed her, she claimed, although she'd always hated the clean-up.
"Believe me, I did more than my share of that growing up," she explained. "Which is why I don't cook elaborate meals very often, these days."
And then she dumped the used bowls and measuring cups into the sink with a slightly smug smile, and Fuery snorted into his wine glass.
"You two certainly seem to be having fun," Mustang said, sidling into the kitchen. Fuery hadn't even heard him come in, but judging from her complete lack of self-consciousness, Hawkeye had.
"Impeccable timing, sir," she replied. She offered him one of the frosting-encrusted beaters from the electric mixer, which he took with childish eagerness. "He's like a stray cat," Hawkeye added in an aside to Fuery, as she handed him the other beater. "Always turns up when there's food to be had."
"Doesn't that apply to most bachelor men, ma'am?" Fuery replied innocently. As if on cue, there was a cursory tap on the back door, which swung open to reveal Havoc, Falman and Breda, all of whom sniffed the air appreciatively.
And Hawkeye threw back her head and laughed out loud.
Present Day
"And it was a lot of fun, you know?" Fuery said, staring down at the forms in front of him. "The Lieutenant is a good teacher, really patient and everything. After that dinner, she showed me how to make some other stuff on my own, just like she originally offered."
"Come on, you're pulling my leg, aren't ya?" O'Reilly asked. "I still can't believe the woman they call Hard-as-Nails Hawkeye would really do something so…so…nice."
"I'm not making it up!" Fuery insisted, indignant. "And stop calling her that! People always assume that the Lieutenant's cold-hearted or harsh, or-or that she has no sense of humor. And that's just not the least bit true! Sure, she takes her job seriously, and she doesn't mess around, and even I thought some of that stuff about her at first. But she's really very kind when you get to know her! And she did cook for all of us, honestly—I wouldn't make that up!"
"Okay, okay, keep your hair on," O'Reilly said, glancing nervously over his shoulder. The fearsome Lieutenant was due back any minute. Lowering his voice slightly, he went on: "So, she didn't scold you at all? Not even for, like, chopping onions the wrong way or something?"
Fuery smiled and shook his head, but before he could answer, the office door opened to reveal the woman in question.
"Ah, welcome back, ma'am!" they greeted her in unison.
"Sergeant Major, Sergeant," she acknowledged. The puppy at her heels trotted over to lean against Fuery's legs, and the young man obligingly leaned down to scratch its ears.
The stern-faced Lieutenant dropped a brown paper bag on Fuery's desk as she passed.
"Ham and Swiss on rye, extra mayo," she said nonchalantly. "Rosie thinks you're looking a bit peaked these days."
"I- you - thank you, ma'am!" he stammered, flushing. Hawkeye smirked faintly as she shrugged out of her coat.
Okay, so, that was awfully nice of her, O'Reilly thought. That was actually really kind and considerate – like something a friend would do. Maybe…maybe Hawkeye the Heartless wasn't such a scary lady after all. Maybe Fuery really was telling the truth.
"Now that I'm back, you ought to take your own break, Sergeant," Hawkeye reminded him. She was already bent over her own paperwork again, pen fairly flying across the pages.
"Yes, ma'am!" Fuery replied, jumping up with a cheerful grin. O'Reilly rose to follow his friend.
"See you in thirty. Oh, and Sergeant O'Reilly?" Lieutenant Hawkeye added in a far-too-innocent tone that froze both men in their tracks.
"Y-yes ma'am?" O'Reilly squeaked. The supposedly draconian lieutenant with a heart of stone looked up from her paperwork just long enough to offer him a mischievous smile that nearly took his breath away.
"As I'm certain our Sergeant Fuery can attest, there is only one correct way to chop an onion," she informed him sweetly. "And don't let anyone tell you different."
A.N. For those of you whose hearts I crushed with the last chapter, I hope this Fuery-centric Team Mustang fluff helps! As always, feedback is welcome and appreciated :D Thanks for reading!
xoxo Janieshi